What Isn't There
by lynne z
Summary: He's not in denial - He's Not! Possible fillers for season 10.


**Disclaimer:** I don't own. Never will.

**Title:** What Isn't There  
**Rating:** R-ish?  
**Summary**: He's not in denial. He's not! - a couple of possible fillers for season 10

**What Isn't There**

It starts like this: they're cleaning up for the night and she's putting on her jacket like nothing is different, as if nothing has changed. Like his whole view of her hasn't just been yanked out and forced into other compartments. He tries to get them back in order to the drawer sternly labeled "partner, off limits, you keep X amount of distance at all times." But it's not working. Pieces that used to fit are misshapen, oblong. It rattles him, makes his head throb and pinch, and want to shove every ounce of psychological knowledge he has down Dr. Gyson's throat.

He doesn't love her. He can't. He doesn't.

"Do you, I don't know, want to grab something to eat?"

He doesn't know why he asked. It's like it wasn't even him, but some misfire in his brain. Her pause and the jump of her brow makes him want to crawl in a hole or look for something on his face. The resignation in her voice when she speaks twists something inside him that has no fucking compartment whatsoever.

"Some other night, sure, but I can't. I, uh, have a date."

"Oh."

And he knows he should say something like, _that's great_, or _have a good time_, but he'd have to mean those things in order to not sound like a total dick and not being a dick to Eames is high on his list of priorities. He just looks down at his blotter and nods, pushing against this flare of possessiveness he shouldn't have and can't brush off as brotherly concern.

"Have a good night, Bobby."

Then she's gone like she didn't expect anything better from him, which makes him sadder than anything that's come up in therapy.

When he sees her the next morning she seems happy, cheery even. He swallows and shifts. He tries not to be bothered by her warm "good morning" and the way she plops haphazardly into her seat because he knows none of it is because of him (wonders what exactly it is from). But then she passes him a file, comments about talking to the security guard again, and it's not so hard to act as if he has never even given one thought to her date or that she even had one. They wrap up their case, move on to the next, and she doesn't mention anything about another date. She's Eames again - sexless and loyal and he can almost not think about what Dr. Gyson said about respect and love and the implication of how fucked up he must be to not see _them _as the start of what a normal, healthy relationship looks like.

/

Weeks later, he watches Eames follow the officers escorting Danielle to their car, but her words stay behind. _True love. We all want to believe._ They roll around in his head, mixed in with his own,_ I want to believe_, and he wonders what exactly she meant. Then he sees her looking at him, her brows pinched together and her eyes narrowed, and he can practically hear her asking him if he's okay, but knows she actually won't. He just nods and follows, climbing into the passenger's side of the SUV as he listens to her situating herself in the driver's seat. They drive for a good ten minutes in silence with him looking out the window at the blurs of the city and her taking her time in getting them back to One PP.

He wants to ask if she really does believe, but doesn't.

/

The next night, after a day of paperwork clean up, he sits in his neighborhood bar, nursing his second beer, because he can't stand the thought of sitting at home waiting for the morning to come along with his last session with Dr. Gyson in tow. He can't just sit and wait while someone else has complete power over his life and what he's allowed to do with it.

Then he suddenly hears _her_ laugh over the chatter of patrons and clinking of glasses and pouring of liquid. It's unmistakable, but it's fake, like one to humor a suspect or an uncooperative witness. It's not real and bright like the one he's managed to conjure on a few occasions.

He thinks he should ignore it, but he can't stop himself from looking over one shoulder and then the other to scan the room for her. He sees her across the room in a booth where if she looked far enough left she'd see him too. She's in a sleeveless dress the color of red wine cut low enough to see just the beginnings of her breasts but still leaving plenty to the imagination. Her hair's up and twisted together at the back of her head, escaping strands framing her face. She is anything but his sexless, safe partner and the man across from her seems to think so too.

He can't be the same "date" from weeks before. There's no familiarity, just getting to know you gestures and awkward smiles. He's skinny, with dark hair and keeps glancing down slyly at her chest. The man points at her drink, asking a question, and she shakes her head, while Bobby imagines she's saying something like, _I_ _better_ _not_. But the man insists and grabs her glass anyway before making his way up to the bar.

Bobby turns quickly back to his beer and wonders if he's just stumbled onto some secret underbelly of Eames – where she frequents bars and flirts and takes someone home to fuck. Some secret life that's always been there but he's never been able to see. Before he can think too much about it, her date comes up beside him and motions for the bartender.

"Two vodka martinis," he says. "And, um, make sure hers is a double again."

He speaks in a conspirator-like tone and then drums his fingers against the bar, while the bartender smirks and says, "Sure Charlie." Bobby tries to bite his tongue, because really none of this is any of his business, but he can't shake the feeling that it should be.

"That's a hot little number you got back there," Bobby says, sneaking a peak at Eames, whose fiddling with her phone.

Charlie smiles and looks over at her too, nodding. He lightly elbows Bobby's shoulder and says, "Well, I'll find out how hot a little later."

Bobby tries to smile, but thinks it ends up more a sneer, and he tightens his fist around his glass so he doesn't tighten it in Charlie's hair to bash his nose against the bar. By then the bartender brings Charlie his drinks and he walks back to Eames, who tightly smiles but takes the drink and sips anyway. She presses a finger to her phone and then shoves it back into her bag.

His pocket begins to vibrate then and he pulls his cell out to see a text from her. He looks back over his shoulder and she still seems oblivious to his presence there, but apparently isn't. He opens her text, which reads, _You just going to sit there or are you going to help me get out of here?_

He has to smile and thinks about going over there pulling her out, staking claim on her, as if she's his to begin with and this date is just a ploy to make him jealous. He's sure that isn't at all what she has in mind, so he calls her cell instead and it rings four times before she answers.

"Hey, sis, what's up?" she answers.

"Sis? Wow...that's um-"

"Wait, slow down. What happened?"

"You tell me."

"Oh, God. Okay, I'm leaving now, I'll meet you at the hospital."

He peers over at her and she's gathering her things, explaining, worried, frantic. She may even be near tears, while Charlie rises, stunned and disappointed. _This woman is very good_. She walks away, but stumbles a little and has to steady herself on a chair as the vodka seems to catch up with her. She recovers quickly enough so Charlie is still too stunned to notice, but Bobby does and once she clears him and is at the door he follows her out.

He finds her leaning her back against the brick wall of the building and rubbing her temple with her fingertips.

"You all right?" he asks.

"Hmmm. I think he got me doubles."

Bobby nods and watches her eyes try to focus on him, like she might ask him a question. Then she smiles a little at him and even though it's sloppy and lopsided, she still looks beautiful wearing it. He clears his throat and shifts at the thought, looking away as if it'll take the thought along with it.

"How many?"

"Uh, two, not including the last one. I'll be fine, I just didn't eat enough before he picked me up."

He wants to wave his finger at her and scold her like a parent for letting him not only pick her up on what is presumably their first date but also letting him get their drinks without her supervision. He also has an urge to scoop her up, take her home, and make sure she has no need for a first date ever again, but he sighs instead, and reaches towards her, brushing her shoulder to steer her.

"My apartment's close. We can walk and I can drive you home."

She nods and stands straight, grabbing his forearm for balance.

"That's probably a good idea."

/

She falls asleep on the way to her apartment, knees tilted to one side and her neck to the other in the bucket seat. Her knee-length dress rides up just enough for him to see most of her thigh and he has to shift in his own seat to not react to how smooth and strong they could feel under his fingers.

_She really does have great legs—_

He shakes his head and forces his eyes forward; neck locked in place, and doesn't relax until he finds a parking space just outside her building twenty minutes later. He forces his shoulders down from his ears and glances over at her. He listens to her steady breathing and looks over the line of her neck, his fingers itching to glide along her skin there. But then she shifts and makes a soft, mewling sound as she comes to.

"We're here," she says, almost surprised.

He gets out – or rather lurches himself out of the car and he can imagine her scrunched brow and whatever shrug as she lazily reaches for her door handle. Her door cracks open just as he gets to it and then he swings it fully open. She grabs his arm and pulls herself up, but doesn't let go once she's on her feet. Her fingers are doing this subtle massaging thing, fingers briefly squeezing and then easing off, on his upper arm. And maybe it's nothing – just what she does when she's tipsy and searching for balance, but it makes him want to feel those fingers on certain other parts of his anatomy.

She finally moves and he follows her into the building and then up the elevator. It takes her longer than it should to find her keys in the small purse clutch thing she has, which is plopped down on the entry way table after she finally gets the door open. She breezes by the table and into the kitchen.

"You want anything?" she asks. "I have some tea, cranberry juice…"

He shuffles behind her and leans against the archway leading into the kitchen, watching her open up cabinets. She looks over her shoulder at him. He blinks at how sexy and sweet she looks with her eyebrow arched and lips parted as she waits for an answer. And God, maybe he's the one who needs to find someone to take home and fuck, but then she turns and leans against the counter, crossing her arms over her chest and looking at him.

"Oh, no. I should probably get back," he says.

She nods, scrutinizing him. He wonders if she can't read his thoughts all over his face and if she isn't about to kick his ass out.

"Sorry you had to drive all the way out here. That mutt was definitely the worst of them."

"Them?"

"These dates."

"I thought you weren't on Kismet."

She smiles ruefully at him, with a hint of embarrassment, before saying, "I'm not. My sister got me six months on for my birthday."

"Oh."

"Yeah, just gotta love her and her good intentions."

"Have- Have any of them had promise?"

He looks down at some invisible spot on the floor, shuffling his foot against the hardwood, and isn't sure if he really wants to know. He hears her huff and he looks back up to find her shrugging.

"One actually got a second date, but no. I guess…I don't know. I guess, I'm just tired of being alone, you know?"

He does know, but it hurts more to hear her say it – to know she feels it like he does. He tries to stutter a response, shifting further into the kitchen and closer to her, but ends up clearing his throat instead. He looks into her eyes, which are cloudy, but not from the vodka – at least not entirely.

"He reminded me of you," she says.

Bobby blinks, looks down, feels all those compartments crashing together, heart hammering, and doesn't want to read too much into the implication. He hears her heels on the hardwood, coming at him. He wants to back away and run as fast as he can in the other direction. He wants to grab her and lift her onto the counter positioning himself snug between her thighs.

"Eames, you don't—"

"Don't what? Know what I'm saying? Don't—"

"Yes! You're. You're drunk—"

"I'm tipsy. I—" she says and then huffs. "I gave up my job for you. You think I did that just because we're partners? Do I have to draw you a neon sign to prove I have feelings for you?"

"Feelings?"

"Just forget it."

She turns away and retreats back to the counter, near the sink. She busies her hands with something that doesn't really need to be cleaned. He hears her shaky breath and feels it like a sharp pain in his own side.

"Eames..."

He joins her at the sink, hip leaning against the counter, before he can stop himself. She doesn't acknowledge him and he finds his fingers in midair, ready to grasp her arm. It's like they're pleading her to look up and pull over him over the edge with her. He starts to sputter a lame response, but stops as her head shakes back in forth.

And then she turns toward him, into him. She rises up on her toes, hands planting themselves on his shoulders, and tilts her head. He's already angled and her lips are _right there_ and its too easy to lean in until his brush hers.

Her arms wind around his neck and his hands find her waist. He's the one who pulls her closer, but she's the one who parts her lips, her little tongue darting out past his. He tastes the vodka and remnants of sugar from all the cups of coffee he watched her consume earlier. The hint of vanilla on her skin makes it his new favorite scent and, even though it doesn't seem plausible, he pulls her even closer until her hips are fitted against his and he's pretty much holding her up.

"Eames, this-"

"Shh. Tomorrow."

Her mouth makes him forget what he was going to say. He lifts her and stumbles back to her bedroom.

/

He has to leave before she's awake. He thinks about waking her, but can't stomach the possible awkwardness with the acid already swirling there, anxious to learn his fate. He doesn't want her to think he ran, despite the fact he kind of is, kind of wants to.

He tears a page from the little notepad she keeps on the fridge. He scribbles a message as if he just left One PP to grab some sandwiches: _sorry I have my last session with Gyson and didn't want to wake you. I'll talk to you soon. _He leaves it by her cell.

He doesn't have time to go home. His knee bounces the whole drive, wondering if Gyson will notice how something - everything - is different now. He wonders if he'll even have a job to go to after this session and how Eames will react to the note he left. If he'll have a partner come Monday regardless of Gyson's report.

_Eames. _He stills feel her skin on his fingertips, the cradle of her body beneath him, and the fruity, salty taste of her. He thinks, maybe they're the only things that really matter.


End file.
